


with a good sword and a trusty shield

by paperclipbitch



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Pining, Pre-OT3, Season/Series 01, i just love doctor bro so much okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8884537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: The flush of being under Ross’ regard is, it turns out, not something that years can fade, not something that years can tarnish.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merryofsoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryofsoul/gifts).



> [Title taken from _Trelawny_ , the Cornish national anthem] I haven't had the opportunity to write for _Poldark_ before, but the show and books have eaten my life for the last eighteen months, so I enjoyed writing this so much! Thanks, **merryofsoul** , I hope I got a bunch of the lovely things in your letter into this.
> 
> A note on the canon: this ties into the series one canon for the most part, with a bit of handwaving because I didn't really want to deal with Keren clusterfuck/smuggling thing. 
> 
> Thanks to Lou for the beta; all other failures are my own.

Dwight remembers him like this: gun-mouthed and bullet-eyed, his own blood sheeting down his face and his hair a-tangle with it, half-wild and all fire, barely content to hold still for the stitches.

“Poldark’s a feral dog,” he remembers an officer spitting out from a tobacco-filled mouth, and they were right; Ross Poldark was a flame you lit and stood well back, hoping his spark and his powder would hit where you aimed, not blow back to you. 

Out of battle, Poldark was like any of the rest of them; a sly smirk, an easy laugh, a man liked and likeable – but the moment shots began to be fired he turned like light on a knife edge, became sharp and fierce and brutal, the sort of man an army wants to pretend it does not wield, but is glad that it does.

Dwight remembers telling Ross to stay still, “do you want to have a face left when this is over?”, and Ross’ bright dark eyes gleaming up at him, pupils spread wide from pain, and Dwight had played cards with him, laughing over purloined alcohol and a pair of spades, and that wasn’t the man shuddering, lips curling back from red teeth, eyelashes gumming with blood.

It’s been a few years since then; Ross returned to England, and, in time, so did Dwight. They exchange letters – Ross has never been a patient or particularly dedicated correspondent, and his words scrawl across the page always in haste, occasionally missing out context as though he thinks Dwight should already know what he’s talking about. The familiarity makes him smile, roll his eyes, wonder if Ross is domesticated these days or chafing at it all – home, family, marriage. Occasionally, it’s his face Dwight thinks of: not just those brilliant eyes, or the curl of his lip, but the cut he sewed so meticulously with Ross shivering under his hands, Ross’ numb fingers pressed briefly against his wrist. He never saw it heal; on some level, he thinks, he might still believe they’ll always be trapped in that moment, Ross raw and sliced open, Dwight with nothing to say to it at all.

-

Ross’ barefoot dreamer isn’t what Dwight was expecting from Ross’ wife – but then he has to admit to himself that he doesn’t know what he was expecting. There were a lot of long nights in America, more of those than there ever were hot nights of terror and weaponry, and Ross occasionally fidgeted with the ever-aging ring on his finger, spoke of Elizabeth in abstract ways that danced around her but left Dwight in no doubt anyway. Most men had a woman back home to think about – perhaps she was real, perhaps she wasn’t, perhaps she wasn’t theirs but if they made it to England again then maybe she _would_ be – and Dwight didn’t, but he didn’t mind, not then, not now. 

Demelza is not Elizabeth and Dwight thinks he knows enough of what happened there, read in the omissions of Ross’ letters, and suddenly Ross had a wife after all, but not one anybody was anticipating. She is mentioned, careless in fondness, from time to time, and Dwight allowed himself to try and imagine who could have caught Ross Poldark’s eye, who could have caught it and kept it. But he could never have imagined Demelza, sunlight in her curls, eyes sparking at Dwight’s name, already knowing him – though he wonders when Ross told her about him, what he said, about the panic and the blood and the way Ross dropped his head against Dwight’s stomach when he was done, eyes closed, breathing harsh, looking for comfort in a grimy apron and a moment’s respite from the dying and the dead. He hopes Ross did not tell Demelza all – not because he particularly wants to keep it private, it’s not his to keep, but there’s little good in that story and a lot of fear and pain and hopelessness, praying for dawn.

Demelza, her belly full of child, her eyes full of dancing laughter, her smile like sunlight on the sea: yes, she’s one to make anyone wax poetical, this woman who has taken Ross Poldark and bowed his head to a bridle, discreetly enough that Ross has yet to notice. Dwight can see in Ross’ eyes that he wants Dwight to approve of her; that he wants Demelza to approve of him, too, and the flush of being under Ross’ regard is, it turns out, not something that years can fade, not something that years can tarnish. 

-

Over the years, Dwight has attended his own share of babies. Not in America, of course, though some men sobbed worse than newborns and perhaps with better cause, but it’s an inevitability of medicine that the smallest of people will come into his care. He’s used to the momentary distrust in mothers, even those not with their first, the hesitation on handing their perfect new child over to his hands.

“You’re sure?” Dwight asks.

“I’ll not have Choake seeing to her,” Ross says, a sharpness in his tone, and Demelza smiles up from the bed, dark red curls and full of light despite her exhaustion.

“If you can treat him at his worst,” she says, jerking her head toward Ross, “I’ve no fear of her with you.”

Earlier, Dwight had maybe thought that Ross had hidden parts of himself from his bride, folded the worst jagged parts inwards to keep them from cutting her. But he sees then that Demelza knows Ross for all his good qualities and his bad, and chose him anyway, and Dwight is relieved in a way he cannot name. 

He takes the baby girl from Demelza’s arms, aware of them both watching him as he checks her over, her tiny surprisingly strong fists, her bright new eyes, her strong heartbeat and even breaths. When he hands her back to her mother with a smile, he sees how both new parents smile, relieved and delighted. He takes his leave when he can, walks back along the cliffs with the wind in his hair and the evening tumbling in, his heart full to bursting.

-

Work keeps Dwight busy – the miners are a little distrusting of outsiders, but Ross’ regard goes a long way to appeasing them – and there’s no shortage of patients for him, and diseases to make notes on. He’s busier than he can remember being since the war, but he loves his vocation, and the opportunity to be amongst those who need him most is a reward in and of itself.

He expected not to see Ross much, a brief passing at the mine from time to time perhaps, a clasping of hands or shoulders and then on with their respective loads, but he finds himself with a standing invitation to Nampara, a door always open. He expected Ross and Demelza to be too busy with their newfound parenthood, their already established lives, but he finds that, somehow, there is room in those lives for him. Demelza’s remarkably unfussy as new mothers go, but he can tell she’s glad of being able to have him check Julia’s various newborn complaints, a sheepish curl to her mouth as she asks about rashes and wheezes over tea. She’s lived around here all her life and proves to be a valuable resource for his questions about miners’ lives and living conditions; the ones the miners themselves can sometimes become delicate about, full of pride to the last.

It becomes something more than a pragmatic transaction more rapidly than Dwight thinks he’s even aware of; Ross reclining in his chair after a hearty supper, Demelza bouncing Julia in her lap while she teases them into reminiscences of their younger years. Dwight thought he was done with talking about the war, tangled and inglorious as it was, but somehow it’s different in Ross’ shabby parlour, licked with firelight, with Demelza glancing between them and laughing in the right places and warmth in her gaze for both.

Dwight’s not had anywhere he could comfortably and honestly call _home_ for a long time, but he thinks that this is what it looks like.

-

“Ross is in town,” Demelza says.

“Oh,” Dwight begins, stiff, “I’ll just-”

“No, stay, stay,” she interrupts, handing Dwight a gurgling Julia and smiling, warm and honest and welcome. “I could use the company.”

 _I’ve missed this_ , Ross told him over a walk after lunch a couple of weeks ago, _I missed you_. He sounded almost surprised about it, but then Ross has never been all that astute about his own feelings. 

Dwight sets Julia against his chest, where she cheerfully begins dribbling onto his last clean shirt, perfectly content to be held. Demelza dashes out, and he can hear her reprimanding Prudie for almost leaving something to burn, her accent so thick that it’s all vowels running together and he can’t pick the words apart. Dwight can feel himself smiling, something too fond in it, he suspects, though there’s no one to see but Julia, who is more interested in clasping her little plump hands in his coat. He stands and picks out a note or two on Demelza’s spinet; he’s no skill, but Julia makes a happy sound anyway, no doubt thinking of the lullabies her mother sings her, the tunes she plays to soothe her in her cradle.

They eat supper – mercifully not burned – and Dwight reposes with a brandy, thinking of his own cottage, not unhomely or unwelcoming, but not like this either. Upstairs, he can hear Demelza walking about, floorboards creaking, humming softly to Julia. He should leave, he thinks, though Demelza asked him to stay after Julia was abed; somewhere he thinks that perhaps this is an impropriety, Ross gone from the house, Dwight entertaining his wife. And yet he’s sure that he should be feeling something wrong, a creeping in his spine perhaps, but he doesn’t. Demelza’s face when she returns is so open and honest and Dwight thinks _no, nothing wrong_.

Demelza picks untidy pins from her hair as she slumps down in a comfortable chair opposite him, firelight glinting in her eyes. Her russet curls spill around her shoulders; she often wears her hair loose, but somehow there’s something different about this, watching as it falls loose, spill by spill. She chatters cheerfully about the villagers, and he fills in the gaps as best he can with his own opinions, trying not to watch as Demelza runs gentle detangling fingers through her hair. He thinks of Ross doing the same, Demelza sat at his feet so she can be closer to the fire while her curls are spread across his lap. Dwight feels his own fingers twitch, buries them in the palm of his hand.

“I should go,” he says at last, and Demelza walks down the garden with him, barefoot and quiet in the dusk. She kisses him on the cheek, her scent of tea and flowers and bread, lingering just long enough to make him close his eyes as he walks away.

-

“It’s late,” Ross says, “don’t go.”

They’ve all been drinking, a little more than is probably wise, but the convivial atmosphere is warm and bright and Dwight was loathe to leave when it was easier to let Demelza fill his glass again. Jud and Prudie are abed, the fire is burning low, and Dwight has Ross on one side of him, shirt buttons parted beyond propriety, and Demelza on the other, her skirts spilling across Dwight’s lap. Whenever he turns his head, all he can see is curls; the two Poldarks, wrapped easily around him, their hair tickling his cheeks.

He likes it more than he should. More than anyone should.

“I should be gone,” Dwight murmurs, not entirely sure what he’s saying, what he’s trying to say.

“We’ve a bed in the library,” Demelza says, her smile easy, and he doesn’t know when she took hold of his sleeve, her fingers small and strong. 

Ross’ arm is warm and weighty around Dwight’s shoulders; he thinks about a party, dancing with Demelza in the candlelight, eyelashes flashing golden, and the way Ross touched his back when they stopped, hand staying put where no one could see until Dwight drained his glass and moved away first. He remembers, too, bored nights in camp, where soldiers waltzed badly to a pipe and a drum, a little too drunk, sometimes a little too fond. Ross laughed differently back then.

He breakfasts with them in the morning, his head a little thick but not too worse for wear, Ross with Julia tucked into the crook of his arm, Demelza’s hands already floury from the bread she prepared for later. It’s warm and domestic and very different to the hasty repast Dwight has alone; he walks over to the mine with Ross and the fresh air cools his cheeks and he doesn’t think too hard about being tipped into clean sheets last night, at least one hand in his hair.

-

It will stay with him forever, Dwight thinks, cradling Julia Poldark while her eyes shone bright with fever and her tiny hands shook in his grip, as a room away Ross tried to soothe his wife, aching and whimpering at nothing at all. He always cares about his patients, no matter who they are or what they’ve done, but this was different: this felt like he was losing something here, something that mattered, something that was a part of him. Julia wasn’t his daughter, but he remembered holding her on the day she was born, her parents watching fond and scared, and he could barely hold himself together, Julia so small and so vulnerable under his hands.

Those endless hours, he and Ross passing between the two beds like shadows. Ross’ grief was a tangible thing, dark and cracking and filling the house until it seemed to steal all of the air. _Poldark’s a feral dog_ , Dwight thought in the worst hours of the night, but Ross wasn’t that creature now: he was toothless, barking at something that couldn’t be fought in any conventional way, brought to heel and hating every moment of it.

Ross fell into his side when the first grief hit, and the promise of more grief was still a sticky-sharp possibility, and Dwight said nothing, fisted his hand in the back of Ross’ sweat-soaked shirt, let Ross press his face into where Dwight needed a shave, needed some sleep, where his pulse was pounding with a loss that couldn’t be his but felt like it, felt like it, felt like it.

-

Later, Dwight thinks he will not be welcome at Nampara; if he is not being blamed, then he must be too much of a reminder, of aching days and worse nights, of a chasm that can never be filled. He doesn’t avoid the Poldarks, but he’s careful, reserved, not wanting to push things that shouldn’t be pushed.

Demelza is too thin, too pale, and Dwight feels he knows her pulse as well as his own by now, the way her bruised eyelids flutter. He cannot dream of leaving Cornwall, not when there are still so many who still need him, but a part of him is tempted to run anyway, away from these people he could not help, whose pain is stuck in his chest as though his own. He does what he can, and slinks away from their fireside wishing more than he knows how to name.

“You’re not a stranger here,” Demelza tells him, her hand wrapping around his wrist. Her fingers are still weak but the touch is too familiar, too much. “You try to creep away but we want you here.” Her smile aches at the corners, but it’s real enough anyway, and she can sustain it. 

Ross is brooding by the fire, his eyes gone inky in the half-light, but his gaze turns to Dwight and it softens in a way that it hasn’t lately, not unless he’s been looking to his wife. 

“Our door will never be closed to you,” he says, soft, and Dwight’s throat hurts from the forgiveness there, the kind they’ll never speak of. “I don’t even know how it could be.”

Demelza is still holding onto his wrist, and at some point Dwight covered her hand with his own; he isn’t sure when, but she isn’t trying to pull away; if anything, her grip has strengthened incrementally. 

Things will never be as they were, and Dwight still doesn’t know when the walls of Nampara became as familiar to him as his own, when Jud and Prudie and Jinny all came to expect him there, to lay a place for him at supper and smile at his arrivals with nothing quizzical in their gazes. He thinks that maybe he should have noticed this happening earlier, but he has been watching himself fall for so long that perhaps his gaze had no room for anything else. No room to notice their distances shortening, shadows blending together on the wall. Dwight wants so much more than he can have, so much more than he knows how to yearn for, let alone voice aloud. Ross and Demelza have their life, scuffled with danger and strife as it is, and they have their complications and their tangles but they love each other. Dwight… Dwight doesn’t know where he fits into that, and suspects that, in actuality, he doesn’t.

“All right,” he says softly, scrapes up a smile. Ross doesn’t blink often enough these days, but his gaze is warm and heavy on Dwight, tangled with something he can’t read. “Thank you. Both of you. I… I should be getting home.”

Demelza doesn’t move; a frown passes across Ross’ brow. “Why?” he asks.

Dwight is about to fumble up some words, something to do with patients to see, remedies to check on, a good night’s sleep he won’t get but might as well try for; something to that effect.

“Oh,” Demelza says, and her voice is fond and warm despite her tiredness. “Oh, Dwight, love, don’t you know that you’re already there?”

Dwight looks to Ross, whose face softens, a rueful smile on his lips. “And you’re supposed to be the clever one,” he says. His legs are stretched out before him, toes knocking comfortably against Dwight’s ankle; he’s not sure when that happened, or how he took it for granted.

Demelza laughs, a sweet peal that she doesn’t dole out for everyone these days, and doesn’t let him go.

“Oh,” Dwight manages. “I… I see.”

He thinks that, perhaps, he finally does.


End file.
